The Lies We Tell Ourselves
by Jest'lyn Tal
Summary: [Spoilers - Takes Place After The Series Finale] Most of us don't get a lot of time to reflect on our choices, both conscious and unconscious. Savino is no exception. But then again, he's never been a very reflective man, has he?


Standard Disclaimers: Now, I know the Vegas writers could do much better than I can in developing the love/hate relationship between our favorite mobster and rancher. Sadly, they'll never get the chance. Call this my brief tribute to what should have been.

* * *

Vincent Savino had never felt more frustrated in his life.

And it wasn't because he could barely move without pain, or even as a result of the paper thin gown they'd slipped on him like an over-sized napkin.

Nah. Those he could have handled.

It was having to pretend that he didn't feel like shit because he had a smug Ralph Lamb as an audience that pushed him over the edge.

"What?" Savino started to snap at the unwelcome interloper. His voice cracked, stealing the edge and leaving nothing of the bite in its wake. Savino tried to make up for it with the strength of his glare, but Lamb only chuckled.

"Hold on now," the rancher drawled and walked to the plastic table by Savino's hospital bed. A pitcher of water and an empty glass stood there. Lamb filled the glass and plunked a straw into it before bringing it to Savino. "Hurts like hell trying to talk when you've just had tubes taken out of your throat, don't it?"

"What do you want, Sherriff?" Savino was in no mood to play. Out there, beyond the hospital doors, Red was probably tap-dancing to explain the situation to the boys back in Chicago, Lena was probably catching the next bus out of Vegas and his Tumbleweed was probably having the second worst day of its life.

Lamb at least had the courtesy to wait until Savino had taken a drink. "A statement, what else?"

Savino's eyes narrowed, "You know what happened. Hell, you and the rest of your little posse were there." He held himself up a little more, unwilling to lay flat on his back, passive and exposed for Lamb's amusement. Pain flickered up from his side, like flames over paper.

"Be that as it may," Lamb was good at ignoring inconvenient facts, "When did you first notice that something was wrong on the floor?"

"You mean besides when you and your deputies came waltzing in?" Savino countered. That should have been warning enough. Sure, the Sherriff might come by to shake things up every now and then, and Jack Lamb was still pining after Mia enough to take the occasional turn through the casino, pretending not to be looking out for her. But both Lambs plus the kid? That meant trouble, and serious trouble at that.

Lamb just smiled at him as he nodded.

"Look, if you are asking me whether I knew Stone was trouble, you are digging up the wrong tree. I hadn't ever seen the man before you and your keystone cops came and spooked him into Mexican stand-off in /my/ casino."

"And yet you stepped between him and Jack," Lamb's voice dropped, quieter as he got to his point. "When you knew he was about to fire. That doesn't seem like you, Savino."

God, he hurt. Mustering up the old familiar sneer, the one that put most men right in their places, took effort. "Maybe I just didn't want to see Mia upset. She's put your brother behind her, but we both know if he played the wounded hero card she might experience a lapse in judgment."

"Oh, I don't think it was that. Stone had Jack cold to rights. Jack couldn't even draw his gun." Lamb hooked his fingers in his belt. "He wasn't going to have a wounded card to play. He was going to be dead."

It was the crowd that had done it. The shifting people and Stone's relatively short stature had allowed the frantic wife-killer to get right up on Jack, gun drawn. Savino had been close enough to see it, to see Jack raise his hands in surrender and try and talk the man down.

That's when Savino stepped in.

There was no way in hell he was going to explain something to Lamb that he wasn't sure he could explain to himself. It wasn't as if he'd actually decided to take a bullet for the deputy. He'd just been trying to keep a gunfight from breaking out in his casino. He'd just been certain he knew more about placating people, convincing people, than the mule-headed deputy.

It had nothing to do with trying to protect Jack, or even Mia who would certainly be better off without the distraction of a cop in her life. And it certainly didn't have a damn thing to do with trying to protect the Sherriff, even though Savino knew that losing either his little brother or son would just about destroy him.

But … what did that matter to Savino? He didn't even like the man. How could he? A man in Savino's position couldn't afford to like anyone, much less a law man. Much less a law man who so very often got in the way of good business. The very idea was ridiculous.

He swallowed hard, feeling sweat bead up on his forehead with the effort of staying upright. "We all make mistakes, sometimes." It was a weak retort, but it was all he could manage.

The sheriff stared at him for a long moment. And for once there was no smirk, no grin, no tense jaw. Just an inexplicably sober expression. "Yeah." he said finally, quietly. "We sure do."

What the hell did that mean? Savino's defensive wariness faltered in favor of sheer confusion as the Sherriff turned to leave. Lamb paused at the doorway though, and looked back at the man in the hospital bed, "And I promise you, Savino. I won't forget this one."

Then the Sherriff gave Savino that infuriating shit-eating grin and walked out.

Savino exhaled unsteadily, slumping back into the bed with a groan. For several moments his mind was blissfully clear of thoughts of sheriffs, deputies, or ghost-town casinos. All he thought about was how good it felt to lay back, and how much it hurt to be shot.

He most definitely did not think about whether he'd do it all over again, if he had to.


End file.
